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Застряла в ліфті: голоси, які шокували

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Нічого не вирішується моментально, все потрібно робити поступово… Приготуватись, щоб не втратити половину всього нажитого.

Я йшла додому, в сумці лежала невелика коробочка. Всередині були годинники для Святослава – елегантні, дорогі, які я обирала з особливим трепетом.

Довгі місяці я відкладала гроші з кожної зарплати, щоб зробити йому особливий подарунок.

Завтра у чоловіка день народження. Сорок два роки – не кругла дата, але я хотіла перетворити цей день на щось запам’ятовуване. Разом ми вже п’ятнадцять років.

Пам’ятаю, як ми зустрілися на святі у спільного друга, заговорили і продовжили розмову до глибокої ночі, стоячи біля під’їзду.

Ліфт у нашому будинку завжди був капризним. Старий, ще радянських часів, зі стінками з фанери, покритими графіті.

Я натиснула кнопку виклику. Кабіна повільно спускалася, скриплячи, наче їй важко виконувати свою роботу.

Нарешті двері відкрилися, світло всередині мигнуло. Я зайшла і натиснула на потерту кнопку з цифрою «8».

Двері закрилися, ліфт повільно попрямував вгору.

Я уявляла, як завтра проведу цілий день з чоловіком. Увечері зберуться друзі та родичі.

Раптом ліфт різко дёрнувся і зупинився.

Я знову натиснула на вісімку. Потім спробувала інші кнопки. Безрезультатно.

– Лише цього і не вистачало! – пробормотіла я, зітхаючи. – Ось невезіння.

Я натиснула кнопку зв’язку з диспетчером. З динаміка почувся тріск, а потім молодий жіночий голос:

– Диспетчер на зв’язку.

– Я застрягла в ліфті між першим і другим поверхами.

– Повідомила майстра. Чекайте, скоро прийде допомога.

– А коли саме? – спитала я, але у відповідь почула лише тишу. Зв’язок обірвався.

Я витягла телефон. Сигнал погано ловив – одна рисочка.

Подзвонила Святославу, але він не відповів. Мабуть, був зайнятий на нараді або в метро. Зазвичай у цей час він якраз повертався додому.

Минуло приблизно двадцять хвилин. Я сиділа на корточках, упираючись у стінку ліфта.

Телефон майже розрядився, і я вирішила його вимкнути.

Раптово почула голоси за дверима.

Жіночий, дзвінкий, з легкою хрипотою.

Це була Ніна – сусідка з другого поверху. Молода, ефектна, завжди на високих підборах. Ми віталися при зустрічах, але близькими знайомими не були. Один раз я допомогла їй донести пакети, і вона пригостила мене чаєм, але далі цього наші стосунки не зайшли.

– Ти обіцяв! – говорила вона з напором. – Скільки можна відкладати? Я більше не можу терпіти!

Чоловічий голос щось відповів, але занадто тихо. Я не розібрала слів, лише інтонацію – виправдовуючу, трохи роздратовану.

– Твої обіцянки нічого не варті! – продовжила Ніна. – У мене більше немає сил це слухати! Ти ж дорослий чоловік, а поводишся як дитина!

Я мимоволі прислухалася. Сімейний конфлікт?

В іншій ситуації мені б стало ніяково підслуховувати, але зараз, через скуку і безвихідь, я невольно стала свідком чужої розмови.

– Що ти від мене хочеш, Ніночко?

Чоловічий голос став голоснішим, і я застигла.

Тембр, інтонації… Це був Святослав?

Я прижалася до дверей ліфта. Не може бути.

Святослав повинен бути на роботі. Або вдома. Але ніяк не в квартирі нашої сусідки.

– Я хочу, щоб ти нарешті сказав їй правду, – голос Ніни тремтів від обурення. – Ти повинен розлучитися. Скільки ще це триватиме? Скільки можна тягнути час?

– Нічого не можна вирішити одразу, зрозумій, – тепер я точно пізнала голос чоловіка. – Потрібно підготуватися. При розлученні я втрачу половину майна: квартиру, автомобіль, дачу…

– А як же наш син? Ти хоч небагато про нього подумав?

Світ навколо мене заколихався, немов я втратила опору. Син? Про що вона говорить?

– Йому скоро рік, – продовжила Ніна з явним докором у голосі. – Він бачить батька лише по вихідних, та й то не завжди. Як ти можеш називати себе батьком, якщо тебе ніколи немає поруч?

Я хотіла кричати, стукати в двері ліфта з усіх сил. Хотіла закричати, що чую кожне слово. Але тіло, наче окаменіло, не бажаючи підкорятись.

Я застигла, немов упала в крижану безодню. В голові металися обривки думок, воспоминань, запитань.

– Підожди ще трохи, – голос Святослава звучав втомлено і безжиттєво. – Я все вже продумав. Скоро все вирішиться.

– Що саме ти продумав? – Ніна фыркнула недовірливо. – Ти завжди кажеш одне й те ж. У тебе завжди є відмовки.

– Я почав переводити гроші на інший рахунок, – відповів він діловим тоном. – Машину оформив на брата. Скоро скажу, що йду у відрядження, а сам подам на розлучення. Так буде простіше для всіх.

– Чому не зараз? – у її голосі звучало явне недовіру.

Я повільно сіла на підлогу ліфта, стиснувши коробочку з годинниками так міцно, наче це могло утримати мене від падіння у безодню.

Думки плутались, спотикались одна об одну. Як це сталося? Коли? Адже ми були так щасливі! Навіть будували плани на нову баню на дачі цього літа.

Святослав завжди здавався таким уважним, таким турботливим. Неужели все це було лише маскою?

І тут згадалися слова матері. Перед весіллям вона взяла мене за руки і серйозно сказала:
«Святослав – помітний чоловік. За такими завжди дівчата ходять натовпами. Будь обережна, щоб не зруйнував ваш шлюб».

Я тоді лише засміялась. Її застереження здалося мені смішним і недоречним.
Як же я помилялась…

Голоси за дверима стихли. Здавалося, весь цей величезний будинок занурився в тишу, залишивши мене одну.

В голові крутилося тисячі запитань: як давно це почалося? Чи знають інші сусіди? І найголовніше – що мені тепер робити?

Якщо Святослав задумав так вчинити зі мною, то я перша зроблю крок. Вирішила розкрити його в його власний день народження. Нехай дізнається, чим обійдеться його обман.

Через кілька хвилин пролунав стук в двері ліфта.

– Ей, там хтось є? – почувся чоловічий голос.

– Так, я тут! – відгукнулась я, з трудом піднімаючись. Ноги затекли від тривалого сидіння на корточках.

– Зараз відкрию, не переживайте!

Почувся скрегіт інструментів, і через кілька хвилин двері ліфта нарешті відкрились.

На майданчику стояв літній майстер у синьому комбінезоні з емблемою керуючої компанії. Сиві волосся, зморшкувате обличчя, грубі руки.

– Ну ось, – він усміхнувся, – свобода! Давно сидите?

– Не знаю точно. Телефон розрядився, а годинників у мене немає, – відповіла я, виходячи з ліфта.

З полегшенням випросталася, відчуваючи, як напруження покидає тіло.

– Ці старі ліфти зовсім не придатні, – зітхнув майстер. – Але їх ніхто не спішить міняти. Грошей немає, кажуть.

Я кивнула, подякувала йому і повільно піднялася пішки на восьмий поверх.

Відкрила двері квартири. Святослав уже був вдома, сидів у вітальні з ноутбуком на колінах. Окуляри сповзли на кінчик носа, волосся розкуйовджене – він завжди так робив, коли зосереджувався.

– О, ти повернулась! – він усміхнувся своєю знайомою теплою усмішкою. – Я телефонував тобі, але ти не відповідала.

– Застрягла в ліфті, – відповіла я, намагаючись, щоб голос звучав звичайно. – Телефон майже сіли.

– Знову цей ліфт, – похитав головою Святослав. – Потрібно вже писати колективну скаргу. Скільки можна терпіти?

Я дивилася на нього і не розуміла, як він навчився так вміло брехати. Кожен його жест, кожна інтонація тепер здавалася фальшивою, наиграною.

– Ужинатимеш? – спитала я, прямує на кухню. – Приготую пасту.

– Звісно, – відгукнувся він. – Допомогти?

– Ні, впораюся, – відмахнулась я і почала діставати продукти з холодильника.

Вечір пройшов як зазвичай. Ми вечеряли, обговорювали новини, дивилися серіал. Святослав розповідав про робочі моменти, я уважно слухала, кивала, сміялася над його жартами.

А всередині визрів мій план.

Ранок наступного дня почався з мого нарочито бадьорого:

– З днем народження, коханий!

Святослав відкрив очі, потягнувся і усміхнувся.

– Дякую, люба.

– У мене для тебе сюрприз, – загадково усміхнулася я. – Але спочатку тобі доведеться закрити очі.

– Що ти задумала?

– Побачиш, – я дістала з шафи його темно-синій краватку. – Повернись, я зав’яжу тобі очі.

Святослав слухняно повернувся. Я обережно зав’язала краватку на його очах, перевіряючи, щоб він нічого не бачив.

– Куди ти мене ведеш? – спитав він, коли я вивела його з квартири.

У його голосі звучало цікавість і легка тривога.

– Сподіваюся, не на стрибок з парашутом? Я ж висоти боюся, ти знаєш.

– Скоро дізнаєшся, – відповіла я, направляючи його до ліфта. – Просто довірся мені.

Ми спустились на другий поверх. Я вивела Святослава з ліфта і підвела до дверей квартири Ніни.

Я натиснула кнопку дзвінка.

Кожна секунда очікування тягнулася безкінечно.

В голові малювалися картини: ось двері відкриваються, і на обличчі Ніни з’являється вираз шоку. Я уявляла її замішання.

Нарешті двері трохи відчинилися. На порозі стояла сусідка в домашньому халаті, з рушником на ще мокрих волоссі. Її обличчя виражало лише легке недоуміння.

— Забирай його, — промовила я і трохи підштовхнула Святослава вперед.

— Що? — Ніна дивилася на нас з явним нерозумінням.

Я провела чоловіка внутрішньо квартири. Він все ще нічого не розумів, але слухняно рухався за мною.

— Можеш зняти пов’язку, — сказала я впевнено.

Святослав зняв краватку з очей, примружився і почав оглядатися.

— Де ми? Що відбувається? — він переводив погляд з мене на Ніну, явно не дізнаючись довкілля. — Чия це квартира?

Я схрестила руки на грудях, готуючись до розв’язки.

— Запитай у своєї Ніни, — холодно кинула я.

Святослав витріщився на сусідку з таким щирим нерозумінням, що на мить я засумнівалась.

— Про що ти взагалі говориш? — він запитав, дивлячись то на мене, то на Ніну. — Віка, поясни, будь ласка.

Ніна теж виглядала смутно.

— Ви що, зовсім зійшли з розуму? — спитала вона.

— Хватить прикидатися, — процедила я. — Я все чула вчора. Вашу розмову у ліфті.

Ніна насупила брови.

— Яка ще розмова? Вчора я весь день була на роботі. Повернулася тільки о дев’ятій вечора. У мене зміна в магазині до восьмої.

Я розкрила рот, щоб відповісти, але тут з кухні вийшов чоловік.

На руках у нього сидів маленький хлопчик, який з апетитом гриз печиво.

— Що тут відбувається? — спитав він, і я застигла.

Його голос… Цей тембр, ці інтонації… практично точна копія голосу Святослава. Навіть манера вимови здавалася знайомою.

Мені стало жарко. Чоловік зовсім не був схожий на Святослава зовні, але їхні голоси… Вони були майже ідентичні.

Я засміялась, взяла Святослава за руку і потягнула до виходу.

— Перепрошую, будь ласка, — звернулася я до сусідки. — Це непорозуміння. Ми вже йдемо.

Дома я розповіла чоловікові всю історію. Святослав слухав мене з цікавістью, немов спостерігаючи за розвитком сюжету у фільмі.

Потім похитав головою і обняв мене.

— Віка, як ти могла подумати, що я здатний на таке? Після п’ятнадцяти років разом? Ти ж знаєш, як сильно я тебе люблю.

— Повериш, коли сама опинишся в такій ситуації, — усміхнулася я. — Прости за цей спектакль.

— Нічого страшного, — Святослав усміхнувся у відповідь. — Тепер у нас є забавна історія для сімейних вечорів.

Нарешті я дістала з сумки коробочку і простягнула йому.

Святослав був у захваті від подарунка, надів годинники одразу ж і цілий день милувався ними.

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З життя32 хвилини ago

Convenient Grannies Helen awoke to laughter—not a gentle chuckle, nor a polite giggle, but a booming, belly-clutching roar wholly inappropriate for a hospital ward, a sound she’d despised all her life. The culprit: her bed-neighbour, phone pressed to ear, waving her free hand in the air as if her caller could see the gesture. “Len, you’re having a laugh! Seriously, he actually said that? In front of everyone?” Helen glanced at the clock. Quarter to seven. Fifteen precious minutes of peace before the day’s bustle—a last chance to gather herself for surgery. Last night, when she’d arrived, the neighbour was already here, briskly tapping at her phone. A curt “good evening” was their entire exchange. Helen had been grateful for the quiet—until now. “Excuse me,” she said, softly but firmly. “Would you mind keeping it down?” The neighbour swiveled. Round face, short grey hair unapologetically natural, a garish red-polka-dot pyjama set—honestly, in hospital! “Oh, Len, I’ll ring you back—someone’s schooling me in manners.” She popped her phone away, beamed. “Sorry. I’m Kate. Did you sleep well? I never sleep before surgery. That’s why I ring round everyone.” “Helen. If you can’t, others might still want to rest.” “But you’re not sleeping now, are you?” Kate winked. “Right, I’ll whisper. Promise.” She didn’t. By breakfast she’d made two more loud calls. Helen buried herself under her blanket, furious. “My daughter rang,” Kate explained over uneaten porridge. “Poor thing—she’s worried silly. I have to calm her down.” Helen stayed silent. Her own son hadn’t called. She hadn’t expected it—he’d said he had an early meeting. It was how she’d raised him: work first, work is responsibility. Kate went in for surgery first, breezing down the corridor and waving, cracking jokes at the nurses. Helen rather hoped she’d be in a different room after the operation. Helen’s own surgery was difficult, as always. She woke aching, sick. The nurse reassured her: all went well, it would pass. Helen was stoic; she always was. By evening, Kate was back, ghostly pale, silent for once, drifting between sleep and pain. “How are you?” Helen found herself asking. Kate managed a wan smile. “Alive. You?” “Same.” They drifted into silence. The IV dripped. The light faded. “Sorry about this morning,” Kate whispered into the dusk. “It’s nerves—I babble when I’m nervous. Drives people mad.” Helen wanted to retort but was too tired. “That’s all right.” Neither slept that night—the pain was too much for both. Kate stayed hushed, but Helen could hear her sniffling. Once, she might have been crying into her pillow. In the morning, the doctor came, checked their wounds, declared them both model patients. Kate immediately grabbed her phone. “Len! I’m fine, honestly. How are my lot? Kirky still got a temperature? Oh, it’s gone? See, I told you it wasn’t serious.” Helen couldn’t help listening. “My lot” meant grandkids, she realised. Her own phone was silent. Two texts from her son: “Mum, how’s things?” and “Text me when you’re up to it.” Last night, when she’d still been too dizzy to reply. She texted: “All fine.” Added a smiley. Her son liked those; said messages came off as cold without them. Three hours later, a reply: “Great! Big hugs.” “Your family not coming?” Kate asked after lunch. “My son’s working. Lives miles away. And really, there’s no need—I’m not a child.” “Exactly,” Kate nodded. “My daughter says the same: ‘Mum, you’re a grown-up, you’ll cope.’ Why bother visiting if all’s well, right?” But her eyes were strangely sad behind the smile. “How many grandkids have you got?” Helen asked. “Three. Kirky’s the oldest—he’s eight. Then Mash and Leo—three and four.” She fished for her phone. “Want to see photos?” For twenty minutes, Kate scrolled through snaps—kids at the beach, at home, with cake. In all of them, Kate was there—hugging, pulling faces, part of the action. Her daughter was never in a single pic. “She takes the photos,” Kate explained. “Hates being in them.” “Do you see them a lot?” “I practically live there. My daughter works, my son-in-law too, so I…well, I help. School runs, homework, dinner.” Helen nodded. She’d done the same in the early days with her own grandson. Now visits were infrequent, maybe once a month—if schedules aligned. “And you?” “One grandson, nine. Bright, sporty. I see him…sometimes Sundays. They’re very busy. I understand.” “Right,” Kate murmured, turning to stare out the rainy window. “Busy.” Later, Kate said quietly: “I don’t want to go home.” Helen looked up. Kate sat, knees hugged to her chest, staring at the floor. “I really don’t. I’ve been thinking, and I don’t.” She faltered. “Why would I? I get there, and it’s Kirky with his homework, Masha with her sniffles, Leo’s torn his trousers, daughter working late, son-in-law away as always. And then it’s: cook, clean, fetch, fix…and they don’t even—” she paused, voice cracking, “don’t even say thank you. Because it’s just Grandma—it’s her job.” A lump formed in Helen’s throat. “Sorry,” Kate wiped her eyes. “I’m being silly.” “Don’t apologise,” Helen whispered. “I… when I retired five years ago I thought at last, time for me. I wanted the theatre, exhibitions, signed up for French classes. Lasted two weeks.” “What happened?” “Daughter-in-law went on maternity leave, asked for help. I’m Gran, I don’t work, it’ll be easy. I couldn’t say no.” “And then?” “Three years, every weekday. Then nursery—every other day. Then school—once a week. Now… Now I’m hardly needed. They’ve got a nanny. I’m just at home, hoping they’ll ask. If they remember.” Kate nodded. “My daughter was meant to visit last November. I scrubbed the house, baked. She rang: ‘Mum, sorry, Kirky’s got club, can’t come.’ Didn’t come. Gave the cakes to my neighbour.” They sat in a hush as the drizzle tapped the glass. “You know what hurts?” Kate murmured. “Not that they don’t come. That I still wait. Clutching the phone, hoping—maybe they’ll ring, just to say they miss me. Not because they need a favour.” Helen felt her eyes sting. “Me too. Whenever the phone goes, I hope…maybe he just wants a chat. But it’s always for something.” “We always say yes,” Kate smiled ruefully. “Because we’re mums.” The next days passed in pain and slow recovery. Dressing changes were brutal; both lay silent afterward. Then Kate said: “I always thought I had the perfect family. Lovely daughter, good son-in-law, happy grandkids—I was needed. Irreplaceable. Turns out, they manage just fine. My daughter’s chirpy, not complaining. They’re just…fine. A granny is simply convenient—free childcare.” Helen pushed up on her elbow. “Know what I realised? It’s my fault. I taught my son Mum’s always available, always waiting, her plans don’t matter, yours are everything.” “I did the same. Drop everything when my daughter rings.” “We taught them we aren’t people,” Helen said slowly. “That we have no lives of our own.” Kate let that sit. “So what now?” “I don’t know.” By day five, Helen was up unaided. Day six she made it down the corridor and back. Kate was always a day behind but stubbornly kept up. They shuffled together, clinging to the rails. “When my husband died, I felt so lost,” Kate admitted. “My daughter said, ‘Mum, your new purpose is the grandkids.’ So I made that my purpose. Only…it’s a one-way street. I’m there for them; they’re there for me only when it suits.” Helen talked about her divorce—thirty years ago, raising a boy alone, studying at night, working two jobs. “Thought if I was the perfect mum, he’d be the perfect son. Give everything, he’d be grateful.” “He grew up, got his own life,” Kate finished. “Yes. Maybe that’s normal. I just didn’t expect to feel this lonely.” “Me neither.” Day seven, Helen’s son turned up, unannounced. Tall, well-coiffed, smart coat, bag of fruit in hand. “Mum! How are you? Feeling better?” “Better.” “Great! The doctor says you’ll be discharged in a few days. Fancy staying with us? Guest room’s free, Olesia says.” “Thanks—but I’ll be fine at home.” “As you like. But ring anytime; we’ll fetch you.” He talked about work, grandson, a new car, offered money, promised to visit next week. Left briskly—almost relieved. Kate pretended to sleep through it all. When he’d gone: “That was yours?” “Yes.” “He’s handsome.” “Yes.” “And cold as marble.” Helen couldn’t reply. Her throat was tight. “You know,” Kate whispered, “I reckon we need to stop waiting for their love. Just…let go. Accept they’ve grown up, got their lives. And we need to find our own.” “Easy to say.” “Hard to do. But what else is there? Keep sitting, hoping they’ll remember us?” “What did you tell your daughter?” Helen found herself switching to ‘you’, as if an old friendship had begun. “Told her I’d need at least two weeks’ rest after discharge—doctor’s orders. No babysitting.” “How did she react?” “Furious at first. I said, ‘Len, you’re an adult, you’ll cope. I can’t right now.’ She sulked.” Kate grinned. “But you know what? I felt lighter. Like dropping a heavy load I never wanted.” Helen closed her eyes. “I’m scared. If I say no and they get offended—they’ll stop calling altogether.” “Do they call much now?” Silence. “See? Can’t get worse. Might get better.” On day eight they were discharged—together, as if fate had arranged it. They packed in silence, as if saying a final farewell. “Let’s swap numbers,” Kate suggested. Helen nodded. They tapped contacts into their phones, gazed at each other. “Thank you,” Helen said. “For being here.” “And you. I’ve not had a heart-to-heart with anyone in thirty years,” Kate smiled. “Not like this.” “Me neither.” They hugged, awkwardly, careful of the stitches. The nurse brought discharge forms, called a taxi. Helen left first. The house was quiet, empty. She unpacked, showered, lay on the sofa. Three texts from her son: “Mum, are you home?”, “Ring when you get in”, “Don’t forget your meds.” She replied: “Home. All good.” Set her phone aside. Rising, she opened a folder untouched for years: French course brochure, a printout of theatre listings. She stared at the flyer, thinking. Her phone rang. Kate. “Hi. Sorry I’m ringing so soon. Just—I wanted to hear your voice.” “I’m glad. Really glad.” “Listen, fancy meeting up? When we’re up for it. Coffee, or just a walk.” Helen eyed the course brochure, then her phone. Back to the brochure. “I’d love that. Actually…let’s not wait. How about Saturday? I’m sick of this sofa.” “Saturday? Are you sure? Doctors said—” “They said. But I’ve spent thirty years looking after everyone else. Time to do something for me.” “Then it’s a date. Saturday.” Helen ended the call and picked up the French flyer again. Classes started next month. Enrollment was still open. She opened her laptop and started filling in the registration form. Her hands trembled, but she kept typing, right to the end. Outside, the rain still fell—but a pale shaft of autumn sun broke through the clouds. And for the first time, Helen thought, perhaps life was only just beginning. She clicked ‘submit’.

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Even when married, she kept hunting for a “real man,” and never hid it, not even after Alena’s father died suddenly. When she was widowed, Tamara grieved only briefly. She packed up, left her four-year-old daughter on her mother’s doorstep, sold the flat inherited from her first husband, and vanished. Grandmother Raya had pleaded in vain for her conscience. Tamara only visited rarely and showed no interest in Alena. When Alena was twelve, Tamara showed up with a seven-year-old Svyatoslav and demanded her mother sign the house over to her. ‘No, Toma! You’ll get nothing!’ her mother refused. ‘Once you die, it’ll be mine anyway!’ Tamara shot back cruelly, glancing with irritation at her daughter, who watched from another room, collected Svyatoslav, and slammed the door on her way out. ‘Why do you always fight when she visits?’ Alena asked. ‘Because your mother’s a selfish woman! I didn’t raise her right! Should’ve been stricter!’ Raissa Petrovna snapped. 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She won’t sign anything for now.’ Tamara exploded with insults but left empty-handed, which only made Andrew more suspicious. Days later, as promised, Andrew accompanied Alena to the solicitor: ‘Listen closely to everything, but double-check what you sign!’ he said. The solicitor was diligent—it turned out a probate case had already been opened in Alena’s name. Raissa Petrovna had also left a savings account to fund her granddaughter’s education, about which Alena knew nothing. ‘What about the house?’ Andrew asked. ‘The property was gifted to the girl some time ago. There are no other documents.’ ‘Gifted? How?’ Alena was stunned. ‘Your grandmother came here years ago to deed the house to you. Now you’re eighteen, it’s yours outright.’ ‘But what about the will?’ ‘That was made seven years ago and later revoked. Your mother probably doesn’t know. 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Furious but helpless, Tamara and her family had no choice. Alena, finally, returned to her home. Paul refused to leave her alone, worried her stepfamily might threaten her, so he moved in with her. And he was right—Tamara and Oleg continued to harass her. When Tamara found out about Raissa Petrovna’s savings, she tried to claim them, and though she managed to get some of the money as a legal share, she never did get the house. Eventually, after countless failed legal attempts, Tamara gave up and left with her family for good. Alena never spoke to her again. Alena and Paul married. The following year she was admitted to university to study her dream subject, and in her third year had her first child. She remained grateful to Paul and his family for helping her in her darkest hour, and lived out her life in happiness. Author: Odette — — The Puzzle The cottage was old but well tended. 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